Harrow the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #2)

by Tamsyn Muir

The pause stumbled execrably, fell down the stairs, and lay in a tangle at the bottom in full view of all listeners, who had to watch it bleed out in embarrassment.

“You’ve got two short minutes left before I punch you right in the butthole,” I said.

Always your sword, my umbral sovereign; in life, in death, in anything beyond life or death that they want to throw at thee and me.

“There’s a difference between keeping a shred of dance card,” said Harrow Nonagesimus, “and saving the last dance.”

I think it is hell to entirely understand any other person.

I would like to thank every key worker in my past who had to administer me medication, because they were always nice about it and often I was not.